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“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“And that is why the answer is no.”

The carnival keeps moving around us like the world has lost its mind. Skull lights glow above the fortune booth. Somewhere near the cider table, Boogie yells at Chainsaw about the difference between decorative bones and drinking-game bones. Uncle Cletus is adjusting the veil on a dead squirrel bride. Fiddle music starts from Main Street, bright enough to make fear feel rude.

Sweet stands in the middle of all that noise and looks at me like I’m another cage with a better paint job.

I hate that look more than I should.

So I step closer and stop before I crowd her. “I got an apartment over the old garage. Private entrance. Steel door. Cameras. Nobody gets upstairs unless I let them. You’ll have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Her eyes narrow. “You have a couch?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I assumed you slept hanging upside down from a rafter.”

“Only during tax season.”

Her mouth twitches.

There she is.

I want to put my hands on either side of that almost-smile and keep it safe from every man who ever made it disappear.

That thought is dangerous as hell.

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

My gaze drops before I can stop it. Her dress is partly hidden under the black apron, but I remember enough. Soft waist. Bare knees. Pink shoes. Strong little chin. Mouth made for arguing and other sins.

“Never asked.”

“You thought it.”

“I think a lot of things.”

“Are any of them decent?”

“Not around you.”

Her cheeks color. The fear doesn’t leave her face, but heat joins it, and for one stupid second I forget we are standing in a carnival with a stalker ex, a rival MC, and a rooster called Sheriff watching from ten feet away.

Sheriff pecks the crate.

I glance at him. “You got something to say?”

The rooster stares.

Sweet whispers, “He bites liars.”

“Then he better stay back.”

Her smile fades slower this time.

Mercy sees everything. She always has.

“Sweet, go with Bitter.”